


somewhere just for us

by moroodors



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dubious Lab Safety, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, backupsmore, college age, drunk ford, fiddauthor - Freeform, ford’s gay awakening, i think, rated teen for hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moroodors/pseuds/moroodors
Summary: a place in between right and wrong.(stanford pines loves fiddleford mcgucket more than his heart will allow)
Relationships: Stanford Pines/Fiddleford McGucket
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	somewhere just for us

**Author's Note:**

> “you are one in a million, and i love you so let’s watch the flowers grow”  
> flowers in the window by travis 
> 
> highly recommend checking that song out. it’s such a lovely and beautiful song that makes me sob every time
> 
> additionally, a disclaimer: with quarantine, i have no access to a computer in which i can type. so i wrote this whole thing in the notes app on my phone. the capitalization is going to be wack, and there’s probably not going to be too many grammar or spelling related mistakes (cross my fingers). i apologize in advance, hopefully it’s not too distracting.

The ceiling, though it saw everything, gave no answers. 

that didn’t stop ford from glaring at it all night, however, trying to make it bend under his gaze, offer some sort of semblance of help to whatever was churning inside him.

the wreckage of a fleeting dream, alluring in the false sense of temporary, able to draw in through promises of realized old fantasies collecting dust at the back of the mind. this siren song gave ford symptoms of a mix of a certain hopeless hope for something else (a deep want for something he knows will never happen but not allowing himself to think of what that thing is) that turned his stomach into something closer to a stormy ocean than anything else and new, different, thoughts about his roommate that let his heartbeat be the only thing he can hear, leaving him like he should be hearing crashing waves. 

the soft snoring coming from the other side of the small room, lovingly carried by gentle breezes whistling an unknown song through leafs, was no help in ford trying to achieve a certain level of focus in which he could remember any part of the dream. the only data he could surmise was momentary thoughts that he’s denied himself in the past, ones like an admiration of a certain shirt to the contours of his roommates body or an unexplained hatred for his girlfriend, that have now become recontextualized but those did not help at all. those were thoughts that already existed prior to this earth-shattering dream. single moments that didn’t mean much bite sized as they were, but now have congealed into something bigger than ford himself. making ford realize things he did not want to realize. 

because 

because ford couldn’t like his roommate in any way other than platonic, right?

alas, ford was nothing if not a scientist. the data, the evidence, was all pointing to one obvious conclusion. but the word “crush” didn’t feel right. too elementary. used to describe sweaty palms and a nervous leg movement, a lifeless dream person to be slotted into whatever romantic fantasy without having to take the time to get to know the person. his roommate wasn’t like that. 

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket was his best friend. they’ve been there for each other at all highs and lows. between the nights where one of them had too much to drink and the days where they aced a test they’ve put hours upon hours of effort into. ford wasn’t smitten to incoherent babble at the mere thought of this man, it was quite the opposite. he could talk freely, thoughts pouring out of his mouth, allowing the vulnerability of being stupid sometimes to be seen. a horrendously addicting drug, in of itself. he could say something like “how many O’s are in mississippi” amidst all-nighters completely seriously but be able to laugh until his sides hurt when Fiddleford points it out. he didn’t feel like he had to hide away, overcompensate with his brilliance, convince Fiddleford he was still a genius as claimed. he could simply be himself. 

“Fiddleford,” under the cover of a dying night, the air molecules have seemed to come closer together to become a liquid, heavy and pushing down on his chest, taking the words and not allowing the sound to get very far. the word — the name — felt transformed as well, bursting at the seams with all the meaning forced into it, meanings that didn’t exist just ten minutes prior. it was uttered so quietly, it was more of a declaration to himself, a confirmation of what he had been feeling. the tightening of his throat and burning of his eyes couldn’t lie, no matter how much his thoughts tried to. 

despite everything, however, there was a “hmm?” from the blankets on the other side of the room, mingled with a half snore and the breathy-ness of person still flirting with sleep. there was then a deeper breath, irregular with the motion of the blanket lightly rising and falling. “Ford?” 

a deep thump inside his chest. what he’d imagine a skipped heartbeat to feel like. he could stay silent - pass it off like he was still asleep, like there had been no noise at all. but at the softness of fiddleford’s voice, smoothed with sleep, and that his accent was heavier too, that uniquely beautiful thing that ford’s never quite heard before, even when he visited fiddleford’s family last winter. the drawls contorting ford’s name into something that was just Fiddleford and just his alone, turning that into something intimate. just something to be said in between notes or bouts of laughter or in the dead of night. with all that, ford just couldn’t keep quiet. “Yeah?” 

there was a final tussling and ford could tell fiddleford was laying on his side, watching ford, going off the sudden awareness of his body that washes over him. “Are ya okay? have ya slept at all?” his voice retains that smallness, like a hug around ford’s middle with the love in it — even if it’s just platonic, there’s that casual remembrance of ford and ford’s tendencies. something that ford didn’t even know that fiddleford knew. the acknowledgement that most nights disagree with ford, without a word spoken between them about it. 

“a little,” ford responds to both questions with that. “my mind won’t stop.” again, responding to both questions. 

suddenly, fiddleford sits up. an ethereal figure against the dying blue of the open window. ford finds his vision drifting from the ceiling to fiddleford, still without glasses so the edges of everything blur together, adding to the illusion of fiddleford being too much for this world, just a ghostly figure passing by. maybe it wasn’t an illusion. 

“why don’t we take a walk? god knows i need it too.” 

it’s a cold, cloudless night. breezy to rattle the leafs, to begin to push the sun out from it’s hiding spot. they’ve been silent the whole time, a few scant inches between their shoulders as they took their normal route around campus. ford didn’t have the chance to see a clock, but it was early enough that everywhere was empty, giving ford a little bit of an out of body feel. 

ford had been able to look up at fiddleford’s face as he stared ahead. the breeze has rustled his bed-head, straight pieces disagreeing in which way they should go. there was slight stubble across his chin, almost invisible given the lightness of his hair. ford could imagine what it would feel like to run his finger across it, slightly itchy and pokey. the few street lamps threw a warm glaze over his skin, gliding over overlooked cheekbones and the plane of his nose, refracting light and making him glow, a divine being of sleepless nights and study halls. 

this forgotten dream that was the cause of this walk has opened the floodgates of ford’s repressed feelings and now he has no idea how he kept it in so long. he couldn’t deny it now, he’s wanted fiddleford since perhaps the beginning of time. a confession that feels dirty on the inside, but also like a crooked pipe has just been made straight. years and years of propaganda forced into his mind since he was born, the taunts, the nicknames. the expectance from his family. these fighting forces pulling both sides of him, tearing down the walls he’s built up over his life, leaving him with wanting to stretch out into an insane grin because he feels so alive. 

“fiddleford,” ford stops suddenly, with a burning hand on fiddleford’s arm to stop him too. he’s bubbling over, a great big ball of flames burning hotter than the sun. shining and shining through his smile he couldn’t stop. because that was it. a breakthrough better than anything else. he’s here alive, breathing oxygen and beating his heart and moving his muscles and feeling the ground beneath him and hearing the chirping of some bug in the distance. he’s alive and rebelling against everything he’s ever come to know. suddenly he can understand the fights they’ve learnt about in u.s history class way back when, the driving force that could melt any object that came too close. he’s burning his stick of life fast and dry with a smile. watching it come all the way to his fingertips and leaving it there, letting it take the skin underneath to burn and burn and continue to burn. he’s fucking alive. he’s fucking alive. 

“what?” fiddleford’s got this sideways sort of smile, like he’s containing a laugh because he doesn’t know why ford is smiling like a mad man in the middle of the walk. can’t see the fire in his eyes, burning and burning. 

the stars are their only witnesses, as ford waterfalls everything he’s ever felt. balls up everything from the first shake of their hands to this very moment right now to fifty years in the future. because it’s all suddenly too much, too heavy, to carry by himself. despite his inexperience in this subject, still not really knowing how to name the feelings inside him, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “I love you, Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. as more than friends. but as friends too. I’ll love you as anything that you’ll let me. please let me. i care about you, deeply.”

ford’s out of breath and breathing with his whole chest. stars push down on his shoulders more with each second that fiddleford just stands there, face blank. his mouth his slightly open, chapped lips just parted in the middle, together at the corners. fiddleford’s mind is so bright and amazing that he’s never at a lost of words. but here he is, silent for another second. 

“I-“ he says, a small squeak compared to his normal speaking. like a stranger almost, blinking like one of his machines when they have an error in their coding somewhere. somewhere, the sun feels colder. 

“I need some time to think.” Fiddleford mumbles out, eyes pointed at ford but looking somewhere past him. he turns quickly and disappears with the wind, leaving ford standing there, wings melting and falling hard onto the concrete, heart thudding in his ears. 

-

it was two weeks later when fiddleford surprised ford with sitting across from him the cafe that ford likes to frequent. ford had had his head buried in a book, still wearing the same clothes from a week ago, when fiddleford sat down, cutting exactly to the chase with a curt “we needa talk.” 

ford jerked up, nodding, fumbling for something to shove in his book to save the spot. he settled on his used napkin and pushed it off to the side, continuing to nod because he couldn’t figure out what else to to. maybe call the police for the sudden ghost appearance. “of course, we can go back to our dorm?”

Fiddleford shakes his head quick, sending a glance over ford’s shoulder. avoiding his gaze entirely, actually. “No. I, ah, prefer here.”

ford nods again and feels like an idiot as he does so. “Yes.” there’s a silence that suggests he was going to continue talking but he can’t seem to find any words to fit right now. “Yes,” he repeats. 

Fiddleford takes a deep breath and looks down at the table. long fingers fiddling with the edge of napkin, nails gently sliding against the aged wood of the table. “Ford, do ya actually love me?”

surprised, ford looks at fiddleford and remains there, trying with every ounce of will that fiddleford will look up and meet his gaze. “of course.”

fiddleford looks like he expected this answer. he nods with a shrug of his shoulders, head somewhat titling to meet the top of the shrug and peer over the edge of his glasses to nothing in particular. “it’s just, how many friends do ya have?”

“what does that have to do with anything?” a hot shame slides down the back of his throat to counteract the coldness of his response, quick in self defense. 

“i’m ya only friend, correct?” fiddleford pauses a second like he was waiting for a response, but they both know the answer to that. “i care about ya too, stanferd, don’t get it twisted. how many friends have ya had your whole life?” 

ford thinks of beaches and boats. of confinement and betrayal. he remains silent and that is answer enough. 

taking a deep breath, fiddleford continues. “i don’t want ya mixin’ up likin’ someone a whole lot and lovin’ someone.”

“what?” his cheeks feel hot, spreading to his ears and down his neck. “Fiddleford, I’m not some preteen. i’m an adult. you don’t need to talk down to me.” 

he nods, but doesn’t look convinced, but there is something apologetic in his eyes, the small glimpses ford can see. sighing, “and i like girls.” it’s quieter than anything else though. fiddleford shakes his head and looks up for the first time, right at ford. those eyes feel like they can reach inside and take whatever they want. ford would let them. “but, like i said, i care about ya a whole lot. i wanna be friends with ya, still. can that happen? jus’ friends?”

ford feels like fiddleford’s asking him to cut off a limb. but he swallows the pain and nods. “of course.” better get him a gag, he doesn’t know if he can refrain from biting off his tongue through the pain. 

“of course.” 

-

“can you hand me a pencil?”

it had been a few weeks since their conversation and everything was, relatively, normal. if fiddleford noticed ford’s intake of caffeine has increased since then, he didn’t say anything. 

“come here, ford! yer’ve been workin’ for hours!”

ford swivels in his desk chair to see a relaxed fiddleford on the couch, clad in boxers and a loose pajama shirt. his glasses hung low on his nose, reflecting a certain spot of light to shine brilliantly towards ford, catching some sort of color and sparkle. a domestic look all together, something ford could never refuse. 

“alright then.” 

it was a small couch. something they found in an estate sale with similar brown leathered items, that all together added to be some old librarian aesthetic. fiddleford has insisted and they bought the couch. a little moment leading to today, a similar sized moment. ford sitting straight with his hand flat on the cushion, fiddleford leaning with long legs splayed over the arm rest, a hand near ford’s on the cushion. 

they were watching a space documentary, ford realized distantly. something he is normally very much into; however, there was more pressing matters currently. the mere centimeters between his hand and fiddleford’s. ford bringing his hand up and running it through his hair, letting it fall down and slightly missing his trajectory, pads of his fingertips landing on just the ends of fiddleford’s fingers. 

he feels his breath catches but prays to whatever’s out there that fiddleford didn’t notice. moving his hand seems out of the option, not that he wanted to, but doing so would be an admittance that this was a thing that happened. and... fiddleford wasn’t moving his hand either. 

slowly, time turning into a molasseses like substance, ford moved his hand until it was entirely covering fiddleford’s. six fingers atop of five. ford held his breath and was trying to figure out if he messed up the delicate balance they’ve managed to achieve. but, fiddleford didn’t move his hand. didn’t look at ford, just kept watching the movie, a soft smile reflecting the stars shown on screen. 

they stayed like that for the rest of the movie, and ford couldn’t keep the dumb grin off of his face. 

-

the clock on the wall chimed twice, light against the dark of the morning. ford didn’t pay it any attention, hunching over careful hands bringing a milligram of acidic substance to the erlenmeyer of purple liquid, condensation burning a ring into his desk. 

the little yellow lamp on his desk was the only thing guiding him through another sleepless night. taking a deep breath, he poured the white powder in, quickly putting a cork on top as soon as he does. fizzing and fizzing, gas fills up the top space before lightening everything, turning the liquid into a more slushy yellow. 

“Yes!” Ford exclaims, stepping back and throwing his arms in the air. the glass crunching beneath him show his previous attempts, flasks breaking and being brushed aside for him to try again. 

“Diddya do it?” a half asleep fiddleford says, eyes closed and head relying on his hand holding it up, where he sat on the couch still wearing his lab coat. 

Smiling, Ford grabs the flask and holds it up. “Yes! I was worried about the hydrogen, and the bonds didn’t seem to be on my side today, but they took to each other beautifully! this trial i added the acid last-“

throughout his ramblings, fiddleford had stood up, walking with heavy legs over to ford. he was smiling too, hair pushed aside from where his hand was, eyes still mostly closed. 

“-I need to go to the professor immediately! this is truly a breakthrough.”

Fiddleford huffed out a laugh, breathless. for the first time, ford looked at the other man properly, their closeness, the pink dusting on fiddleford’s cheeks. freckles, barely darker than the rest of his skin, painting a scatter plot on his nose. “It’s 2am, yer not goin’ right now.” fiddleford’s gaze goes higher, to ford’s hair. “what has happened here?” long, nimble fingers, perfect for playing the piano, or playing the banjo, go to ford’s hair, lightly threading and pulling different pieces. making music with the way he untangles. 

“probably hydrochloric acid,” ford keeps his voice soft, holding it just between them, “must have gotten on my hands.” 

the dark blue eyes flick down for a moment, to ford’s hands. he sighs, “we really needa get ya some gloves.” 

A crooked grin, “i could always wear mittens.” 

Fiddleford laughs, more of a snort than anything else, tiredness still very apparent. his hands fall from ford’s head to rest on his shoulders, heat that’s able to past through the lab coat and the sweater underneath, searing straight to skin. 

“Stanford Pines, go take a shower. ya stink.”

“Ah, so it seems.” 

his shoulders feel like they should be pink, once fiddleford has let go. similar to the long days under a hot sun during the summer. he can still feel distinctly each finger and the spaces inbetween- the absence of Fiddleford. molding life beneath his palms, fiddleford creates new galaxies. explosions of nebulas, stars, and rock. swirling and spiraling. fiddleford is the sun, and here ford exists, trapped in orbit. 

under the cold water of the shower, ford shuddered. 

-

it was trivia night at the local bar and they were finally letting ford play again. 

he had had a streak of being at the winning table no less than ten times in a row. this had resulted in many annoyed patrons and a three month ban for ford, enough time for the current usual customers to filter through the next bar around campus and forget about ford. 

fiddleford had situated them with about four beers each and a corner table, sitting with some people he had recognized from their calculus class. 

they all got along nice enough. the guy named brandon or something similar had even brought shots for all of them, as the announcer began explaining the rules. write the right answer on the little white board and your team got points. team with the most points won. this bar just gave each table a number, and ford’s table was nine. 

progressively through the night, as their team easily racked up the points, ford got very much drunk. drunker than he has been in a long time. 

“What does the H stand for in ADHD?”

Ford leaned his head towards fiddleford, slouched over and using his hand to hold his head up. The tie he had come in with was now laying limply across his shoulder. Through heavy lips that slurred his words, “does he mean the first H or the second H?” 

fiddleford flicked ford’s forehead as he wrote down hyperactivity, “There’s only one H, stanferd.”

Putting a hand up to his forehead, ford frowned. “Ow.” He shook his head and looked at the table, thinking of the way fiddleford says his name, “Stanferd.” 

“How much have ya had to drink?” 

“Yes.” 

distracted with the host talking again, ford whips his head around to see, and groans when a dull pound starts at the back of his skull. 

“In physics, what type of light is UV?”

Ford, who’s on track to finish a doctorate in physics, turns to fiddleford with absolute panic in his eyes. “I don’t know!” 

Laughing, Fiddleford pushes the whiteboard to someone else and stands up. “C’mon lets get ya home.” 

“Wait, we haven’t won yet!” Ford lifts a weak finger to the score board, where they are at least a hundred points ahead of everyone else. He doesn’t try to fight back at all as Fiddleford grabs him under his arm and lifts him to standing. He stumbles, but Fiddleford steadies him with hands on his sides, then opting for a arm around Ford’s shoulder to start their walk towards their dorm. 

“I knew once ya couldn’t answer a science question, it was time to go home.”

“Hey, I know science!” Ford straightens up, Fiddleford’s arm still remaining on his shoulder. “I once made a perpetual motion machine.” 

Ford can feel Fiddleford’s gaze on the top of his head, like little pinpricks of pure light. “Now yer just lyin’.” 

“What?” Ford exclaims, ducking under fiddleford’s arm and looking around them, finding a muddied stick in the grass near them. he hurries and grabs it, almost making a new relationship between his face and the ground. “It looked like this!” Using the mud, Ford draws a model of his project on the ground. exactly to scale, like he was drawing the back of his hand. 

He’s almost finished writing the formula for the motion when Fiddleford speaks, “Wow. That’s really amazin’. How come I’ve never heard of it?” 

Suddenly remembering, Ford scribbles it all out, letting out the breath of excitement as he sat on the concrete. it was cold beneath him. he let himself get all caught up in the fun of it all, the warm night, cold drinks, and a happy memory. one he thought had gotten all the black out, but was still stained. further than he realized. somehow, he knows that if he wasn’t this drunk, fiddleford would have never known about the perpetual motion machine, which then brings up the science fair and- 

“Stanley.” He says, to the snail creeping by on the ground, all his life leaving him. his eyes burn and he blinks, trying to hold back but ultimately can’t do it. hot tears, hotter than the air outside, rolling down his face, reaching the canyon of his jaw and jumping, splattering on the concrete. 

Fiddleford kneels down next to him and Ford turns to him and it’s the suddenness of seeing him there. a kind face that’s open and worried. cheeks slightly red from the few drinks fiddleford had, knee of his jeans sitting right in the mud but fiddleford doesn’t even notice. is just watching ford. all together causing ford’s lip to shake, biting it to save off some sort of embarrassment. he suddenly feels all too sober. 

“who?” 

and it’s like a slap in the face, but it’s not fiddleford’s fault at all. it’s completely ford’s and that makes it so terrible. he brings his knees up to his chest, throws his face into the makeshift wall, and sobs. for being a horrible brother. for lost relationships and betrayals. for boats and forts. for mystery hunting and bully stopping. For Stanley. who he misses terribly, despite everything. because of everything. 

fiddleford rubs circles on his back, intricate crop circles that ford can’t translate. 

centuries later, feeling like a tree rooted to the ground, ford eventually stops. keeping his head down for a few more years before looking up and meeting fiddleford’s eyes, head spinning from the tears and something else. maybe the drinks. “I’m sorry.” 

A crooked smile, familiar in the same way a favorite mug is. “Fer what?” 

And Ford doesn’t really know what he’s sorry about. there’s so many thing that when he tries to apply a word to it, all can not simply cover what he’s attempting to convey. crashing landing on one specific thing, he motions towards fiddleford’s knee with a glance of his eyes. “for getting your pants dirty.” 

gentle, fiddleford reaches over and cradles Ford’s cheek, ghosting with the very briefest of his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. he smiles a certain not smile that lets ford know that fiddleford knows that ford is talking about something else. they stay silent like that for a few heartbeats, fiddleford with his hand on ford’s cheek and ford completely still, mind blank, like any singular thing can break the glass holding them in place. 

“ford,” fiddleford begins, as gentle as a butterfly wing, “who is stanley? what does he gotta do with yer machine?” 

reaching into his jacket, ford takes his wallet out. his fingers were shaking and not listening to him well, but he was able to get the picture out. folded up between an ice cream royalty card with two stamps on it and a business card from a professor he had last year. 

he hands it to fiddleford, pointing to the frozen boy in front of the loved boat, “that’s stanley,” he points to the other boy, just as much of a stranger, “and that’s me.” 

the words were still slurred, but didn’t hold the same loudness as before. “i built a perpetual motion machine for our senior science fair. west coast tech was going to come and see it and everything. but i guess stan got jealous or something, i don’t know. but he broke it, maybe on purpose. maybe not. i dunno. they rejected me, obviously, so i came here.

“he was kicked out.” Ford doesn’t know why he’s continuing, fiddleford already got all the information needed. but it felt like the sky was being lifted off of his shoulders. someone he can talk to about this. “before our graduation. i didn’t do anything, i was so mad. still am mad. i dunno. i haven’t seen him since.” 

“Oh, Ford,” there’s a wet release of air, and Fiddleford brings Ford close, a tender embrace, just around his neck, arms on top of his shoulders. fiddleford runs his hand through ford’s hair. ford can hear fiddleford’s heartbeat against his ear. thumping and thumping. a comet could hit the ground next to them and ford wouldn’t’ve noticed. the only senses he could take in was the heartbeat in his ear, the cologne fiddleford uses, mingled with the scent of beer, and the warmth - but he can’t tell if it’s coming from the outside or the inside. “Why don’t ya try talkin’ to him? when ya more sober?” 

Ford’s side of his face is in Fiddleford’s chest, muffling his voice. “I’ll be mad at him again when I’m sober.” His voice is deeper than normal, held down with tears. he’s busy staring at nothing, feeling the scratchiness of fiddleford’s sweater against his face. Ford, with his mind still not at full capacity, can not even begin to understand Fiddleford. Even at full capacity. The enigma of wanting to be friends but lovely, close moments like this, just the two of them floating in space, a hug closer then anything Ford can remember. Different in the way it bubbles his stomach, maybe Fiddleford has a loose wire on him somewhere, with the electricity running up and down Ford’s arms. 

“Why don’t we get ya home now?” Ford can feel the vibrations of Fiddleford’s voice against his head. An earthquake, pushing a tsunami of feelings that Ford’s drowning in. 

Nodding, Ford allows Fiddleford to guide him up and towards their dorm once more. They’re silent, just footsteps against concrete. 

“Don’t mention Stanley when I wake up,” Ford mumbles out as Fiddleford unlocks the door, “I’ll be mad.” With that, Ford lets himself fall face first on his bed, missing the pillow and his legs still hanging off, but stays like that, beginning to snore within minutes. 

In the morning, Ford couldn’t remember a thing. 

-

the end of the year crept closer and with it, Ford’s confusion for his and Fiddleford’s relationship remained at a constant, high level. 

walks to class or to the library or to the cafe or to the bar we’re filled slight touches: shoulders almost like comets bumping off each other before orbiting back around to do it all again, pinkies grazing each other just long enough for sparks, and their steps in sync. 

when ford had won his grant for his research, fiddleford had turned with so much pride and joy in his eyes, arms open for a tight hug that had their chests held together, ford could almost believe that this was normal. fiddleford loving him was normal. 

just the other day, when watching one of their science fiction films they rented, fiddleford had fallen asleep on ford’s shoulder. fitting together like two pieces of the same broken vase, ford didn’t pay attention to the movie after that. just watching fiddleford. the rise and fall of his chest. his eyelashes resting gracefully upon his cheek. the angle of his jaw to his neck, open and exposed, making ford think of parallel dimensions where the thoughts he was thinking could actually happen. eventually, ford had fallen asleep too, waking up with a dusty morning sun in his eyes and fiddleford humming a breakfast into creation, both not acknowledging what had happened. but if fiddleford noticed that ford was smiling more that day, he didn’t say anything. 

all of this had caused ford to be sitting by the window one starry night, thinking of New Jersey.

specifically of the time when he actually had a date to a dance, at the insistence of his Ma. 

the girl had asked him to go a week prior to hi. agreeing. initially he had said no, reported the happening to his Ma that night at dinner with a half mentioning sentence and she had lit up, claiming that ford had to go with this girl he’s never heard of before this, saying that they’ll be dating for the rest of the year, convincing them all that she had seen grandchildren in her crystal ball the night before. so, ford had taken the girl to the dance. he ended up with punch in his face and didn’t really understand why until now. 

he wasn’t attracted to her, at all. he always saw the other boys in his classes saying that’s impossible for him to not have a crush, a celebrity, that girl in english class, even a teacher, anything. ford has always said no. shut off any hope with a lock and key, swore off girlfriends and wives and love. he was married to his work. didn’t need anyone else. 

he thought that lingering glances on the chests of the other boys during swim in p.e was normal - that everyone did that. but everything has changed since coming to college, meeting fiddleford. having that dream that forced him to reconsider who he thought he was. take a second and meet himself proper. 

stanford pines is gay and that might be okay. he still hasn’t figured out that second part yet. 

his Pa would hate him if he ever found out. gut him and leave him bleeding on the floor. the apathetic man that didn’t give a damn about anything except the pads of cash rubbing together in his pocket. 

but... since when did he care about his Pa’s love anyway? filbrick was nothing more than a warden ford’s entire childhood, not shying away from the electric chair. sure, he was going to hell anyway, but if people like fiddleford were there, how bad could it really be? 

standing up suddenly, ford knows what he has to do. he throws a sweater over his pajamas and is rummaging around various notebooks and papers for his shoes when fiddleford wakes up. 

he sees fiddleford’s feet next to him, where he’s kneeling on the ground. “ford? what are ya doin’?” 

“i’ve got to make a phone call,” he mumbles distractedly, finally having found his shoes and stuffing his feet into them. he bounces up and suddenly filled with a rush of affection for the messy haired, squinting from lack of glasses, rumbled pajamas, wrapped in his blanket still, southern man, he grabs fiddleford’s head and kisses his forehead, running out the door with a “I’ll be right back!” and across campus to the nearest phone. 

he dials then psychic hotline, the only one he knows, that hasn’t changed over all the years. 

“i’m sorry, but psychic readings aren’t available right now-“

“Ma, it’s Ford,” despite the nerves, Ford can’t stop smiling. 

“Ford, what happened? why are you calling so early?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” He feels like he’s buzzing and it’s great. because Nothing’s Wrong. “I just had to tell you that I’m gay. there’s this wonderful, brilliant man that i love with all my heart. and i don’t care what you think, or Pa. I just had to tell you. 

“so, don’t expect any girlfriends,” he finishes kind of lamely and awkwardly but he said it. did it. and because he already used up all of his confidence, he hangs up the phone before his Ma can respond. 

bursting in a fit of insane, relieved laughter, he flings himself down on the grass next to the phone, laying on his back and looking at the sky. he’s slayed as far out as he can go, smiling and smiling, so much he can feel the wind dry his teeth, but he’s so happy. he starts crying, cheeks hurting and shoulders shaking, lifting up and back down on the damp of the late night grass. he’s sure to get stains in his sweatshirt but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care. 

“ford?”

he jerks his head up and sees fiddleford standing a few feet away, looking the same as before expect now featuring his well loved slippers and thin glasses on the edge of his nose. “you’ve been a while, i was worried.” that worry is etched into every line and curve of his face. 

jumping up, ford smilies a second sun into existence and spins around, arms out, seeing the pokes of light in the stars become lines as he turns. “I’m gay, Fiddleford!”

He laughs again, insane in a special kind of way that left him gasping for more, breathless, spinning out of control and out of his mind, gasping and grasping for more. stopping right in front of fiddleford, the world still spins but fiddleford and him remain still. fiddleford is all that’s in focus. 

“I just told my parents?”

“You came out already?” he’s speaking softly, like it’s too himself. he crosses his arms in front of him, looking like an ancient greek god with his ratty, home-made blanket, conducting the moon light, bending it towards him. 

“Yes,” Ford nods, sobering some. He holds up his hands. “They already think i’m a freak, so why not add to the list.” 

A flash of anger rolls down his back like lightening, “I love you, Fiddleford, and we’re going to be separated soon, with school ending. we keep doing these romantic things but staying at friends and i can’t handle it anymore. i can’t be in the middle. why can’t we be something more?” 

“i needed time to, ah, figure myself out.” ford can see tears pooling at the bottom of fiddleford’s eyes, almost pure starlight. “but ya right. it’s has not been fair to you. tip toein’ the line. makin’ ya confused. i’m sorry. but i think i know what i want now.”

Fiddleford takes a breath and Ford can hear his heartbeat, all the way in his toes and in the ground beneath him. centuries old, the same as the dirt. 

“You, Stanford Filbrick Pines. I love ya, and I should stop lyin’ to myself sayin’ I don’t. if ya would still allow it, I’d like to be with you.”

And Ford can’t breathe. can’t think for the first time in his life. so he doesn’t, he just moves. forward to Fiddleford, acting more experienced than he is in the way he grabs both sides of Fiddleford’s face and brings him closer, kissing him in something long overdue. 

their noses bump and chins scratch, but ford’s loving it all. rubbing a thumb against fiddleford’s cheek as the other man melts, bringing one hand to ford’s chest and the other to his face, just under chin. tentative and light. 

they part, breathless in the same air, and ford can’t stop from inspecting every inch of fiddleford’s face. the pink cheeks, reddened lips, specks of green that he hasn’t noticed before in his eyes. trying to memorize it all. paint a picture on the inside of his heart. 

they’re on each other again, slower and deeper, not as frantic, before they’re running across campus, blanket flying in the wind, laughing loud enough that the stars can hear, five fingers fitting perfectly between six fingers. 

the door is open in record time, and fiddleford’s back is against the hallway wall. ford finds his right hip bone, thumb sliding down the bone and residing in the dip.

fiddleford moans into ford’s mouth and ford is just about finished right there. his mind is spinning away from him, insanity in liquid form, pooling at the bottom of his heart, leaving him on some sort of high, addicted but he unable to complain. giving into the temptation, the shaking of withdrawal; he drinks it, inhales, injects, anything under the sun. Because he can not get of enough of the insanity of Fiddleford.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
